


Hot Rod (Illustrated)

by CousinSerena, GayDemonicDisaster (scrapheapchallenge)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1950s, 50s Greasers, Ace cafe, Angels, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cars, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Demons, F/M, Femme Aziraphale (Good Omens), Greaser Crowley, London, Possessive Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Sex in the Bentley (Good Omens), Street Racing, Top Crowley (Good Omens), car racing, hot rod - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23283004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinSerena/pseuds/CousinSerena, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster
Summary: 1950s London: Crowley discovers the hot rod scene and likes to push the Bentley to its mechanical limits, no demonic interventions allowed, in high stakes illegal street races. When he asks Aziraphale to accompany him for a big race, the stakes get rather higher, and Aziraphale discovers that she finds this side of him rather hot…ILLUSTRATED byMiele_PetiteMiele did TWO gorgeous illustrations for us, the 1950s style movie poster and the NSFW pencil sketch futher down in the fic.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 235





	Hot Rod (Illustrated)

**Author's Note:**

> Story concept, backseat smut, and other non-automotive narrative by CousinSerena.  
> All car scenes, London knowledge and heart-stopping race action by GayDemonicDisaster. Artwork by Miel_Petite. Go check her out on [Tumblr!](http://mielpetite.tumblr.com)

Aziraphale shivered as she stood next to Crowley outside the Ace Café, where bikers and motorcar enthusiasts had gathered tonight. The place was apparently a magnet for this sort of thing. For some, this was just their regular hangout, but others were here just to watch Tony “Crazy Ace” Crowley race the notorious Billy Barrett, AKA “Quick Burn Billy.” The two had a legendary rivalry, and tonight’s race would settle the score.

She didn’t know if she was shivering from the cold; she wasn’t used to bare legs, after all… or from feeling completely out of her element. She wasn’t used to being a _she_ at all, and she felt very exposed in this outfit. She wore a tight pink sweater which showed off her new generously sized bosom. And this skirt… her _knees_ were showing, for Heaven’s sake. Why did she let the demon talk her into this ridiculous situation?

Crowley loved going fast in that Bentley of his, but things had really got out of hand when he’d discovered street racing. He was so dedicated to it that he’d spent nearly as many nights at the Ace as he did at the bookshop these days. Aziraphale was frankly a bit jealous.

“What’s the appeal of it all, Crowley?” the angel had asked one day over lunch. Aziraphale took another bite of his boeuf bourguignon, his eyes closed briefly in appreciation of the subtle flavours before carrying on. “Surely you just win every time using your demonic powers. How can that be exciting?”

“I don’t!” protested Crowley.

“Don’t what?”

“I don’t use my demonic anything to win, Angel!” he seemed shocked at the very idea. “I’m a purist. It’s just me and my mad driving skills along with the Bentley, one hundred percent. Anyway, how would it make the old girl feel if she thought I didn’t believe in her… if she thought I needed occult help for her to win? It’d give her a complex.”

Aziraphale knew it wouldn’t do any good to point out that the Bentley was a car and therefore most unlikely to develop a complex about anything.

“Actually Angel, I er… have something to ask you. About the racing, I mean.” Crowley had set his glass down and was fidgeting with his napkin, uncharacteristically nervous. 

“What is it, my dear? By all means, ask away.” 

“Well, I need a girl. For Saturday night.”

“A girl?” Aziraphale was not catching on. 

“A date. A squeeze. This race is a big deal and I can’t...” Blast it, the angel was going to make him spell it all out, wasn’t he? 

“Angel, will you change to a woman and be my date for the race Saturday night?”

Tea splattered on the tablecloth as Aziraphale coughed and choked.

“Change to a… be your _what_? My dear boy!”

“Look,” Crowley sighed. “It’s for my reputation. I mean, Billy’s always got that trashy Ruby Turner hanging off him. He doesn’t give a fig about her, but I can’t show up looking like I can’t get a girl.”

Aziraphale stared at him in stony silence. Crowley was going to be reduced to bribery.

“Look Angel, if you do this, I will buy you lunch at the Ritz every Saturday, bring you pastries every morning for a month, and… and…”

“ _And_ go with me to that new ballet that’s premiering next week,” said Aziraphale.

“Ballet? Oh _nononono_ ,” pleaded Crowley. “Aziraphale, it’s two hours of people prancing around in tights. How can you expect me to sit through that without falling asleep?”

“That is my offer, take it or leave it,” he said firmly.

“Oh, fine.” Crowley sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically in defeat. “But you have to really look the part for this. Cute clothes, preferably tight, plenty of curves in the right places, and, you know…” Here he cupped his hands in front of his chest to indicate big breasts. 

“Good Lord,” said Aziraphale. “Very well, we have a deal.”

And so it was that Aziraphale and Crowley spent the next Saturday morning in the shop, which was closed for the day, trying on looks for Aziraphale. Changing his entire appearance, as opposed to just the genitals, took considerable divine energy. But finally, she had the look that Crowley was going for. Aziraphale did some touch ups in front of the mirror, then spun around for Crowley to get a look.

He whistled. Aziraphale was stunning. No, stunning was the wrong word. She was _hot_ . She was all curves in her tight skirt and equally tight pink jumper. Same brilliant blue eyes and blonde hair, but she’d swept up her newly long locks up in a cute ponytail. Her features were softer and feminine but she still had the same adorable little upturned nose. But the _jumper_. The oh so tight jumper. He couldn’t stop staring at the way she filled it out, with those big round...

“Crowley?” Aziraphale was looking at him, hands on hips and one eyebrow lifted. Her voice was just as melodious as ever, but femininine now.

“Ah, oh, yes Angel. Very nice. You look lovely, in fact.” _And so goddamn hot and voluptuous that I want to stick my hands up that jumper, feel your tits and then lift your skirt up and bend you over the furniture, then fuck you into oblivion._

But that way lies madness, he thought. He needed to focus. He willed the beginning of an erection to go away by thinking about that pock-marked greaser Billy and the big race. He spent the rest of the afternoon explaining car culture to the angel, then going over the Bentley to make sure she was in top shape.

Finally, it was time to head off. Crowley wore his ridiculously tight blue jeans paired with a tee shirt and black leather jacket, and his hair was brylcreemed into a messy pompadour. He looked over at the angel in the passenger seat as he drove. She was chewing on her lower lip nervously. 

“Don’t worry, Angel. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re just with me tonight as my date, yeah?”

She nodded and flashed him a nervous little smile.

He longed to reach over and squeeze her thigh ( _her thick, voluptuous thigh_ ) reassuringly, but he didn’t dare for fear he wouldn’t be able to stop with just a squeeze. He had to keep his mind clear for tonight.

Crowley eased the Bentley over the rutted tarmac outside the front of the Ace, a load of motorbikes stood outside in a line, mostly BSAs and Triumphs, and there were a fair few ex-army Harley Davidsons left behind after WWII, mostly repainted in bright colours, but there were a couple still in their military green. The bangs and pops from the straight through exhausts punctuated the night sky, and the scent of unburnt fuel from the tuned rich-running engines assaulted the nostrils.

Parked on the other side, against the pavement, were a selection of cars - from new Vauxhall Wyverns and a Velox, probably borrowed from someone’s parents, an incongruous old Railton 8, to a couple of Ford Anglias, a Zephyr, an imported German Opel Kadett I, and a bright blue Ford Pop, with gleaming whitewall tyres and chromed trim. 

Crowley instinctively stilled and watched warily as a black Wolsely 6/80 rumbled past on the main road, “POLICE” sign painted in white across its doors. It slowed as it passed the Ace, the officers inside casting a deliberate look over the clientele. A couple of the bikers tossed their cigarettes and ducked back inside the building out of sight. Nonetheless, the Wolseley didn’t stop, and carried on down the street, heading toward the Great North Road. 

Crowley drew breath again and parked up, stilling the engine. The Bentley was not the usual marque of vehicle associated with the Ace, even one this old, and it drew a few mildly surprised glances. Only the Railton was of a similar style and era. 

Crowley let his gaze sweep the lineup of cars appraisingly, seeking any new competition he could challenge. He recognised the blue Ford Pop from the previous week. It had started life as a 103E the owner had bought as a crash damaged write-off, and ripped the engine out. It had been retrofitted with an imported Ford flathead V8 with Edelbrock intake manifold and new magneto. He’d also juiced the brakes, extra stopping power being pretty important when you put that much power through the drivetrain.

It still only had synchromesh on 2nd and top, but then the Bentley lacked it completely, meaning Crowley had to double declutch on every gear change. Not that it slowed him down any. A swift double stomp was all it took with his quick reactions. A simple stomp, nudge the gear lever into neutral, lift-stomp, then into the next gear in one smooth, fluid movement. 

The Pop, powerful as it was, hadn’t been a match for the Bentley and he’d beaten it in short order the week before, much to the surprise of the driver, who wasn’t keen for a rematch after having lost thirty bob on the bet. 

Crowley exited the car, then came around to help the angel out of the passenger side. The show was about to begin. She stood next to him for a moment, smoothing her skirt down primly. Everyone was watching them. He grabbed her and pulled her in for a kiss on the cheek, then whispered, “I want you to call me Tony tonight, yeah? _All_ night. Even if it’s just you and me. It’ll help you stay in character,” he said by way of explanation when she raised her eyebrows. 

“Come on, Angel, let’s go.” 

He smacked her on the bottom and she yelped. He grinned and strode ahead, leaving her scurrying to catch up. Aziraphale supposed this was the way most “hot rod babes,” as Crowley called them, were treated by their boyfriends. 

Crowley strode up to an unsavory young man in a leather jacket, who was holding a cigarette. He must be this “Quick Burn Billy” that Crowley... rather, Tony… was going to race. Behind him stood a young woman in very tight red capri pants and an equally tight black off-shoulder top, also smoking. She must be Ruby. 

Aziraphale stood next to Crowley… _Tony_ … who put his arm around her protectively.

“Well, well. Tony ‘Crazy Ace’ Crowley,” drawled Billy. “Nicely done with that Ford Pop. But I’m not gonna be that easy. So what’s the stakes, Ace?” 

“Stakes?”

“You didn’t think we was just racing for glory and braggin’ rights, didja?”

Crowley did, actually, but he couldn’t afford to sound stupid.

“’Course not,” he said. What the heaven would he want that Billy had? 

“Fine,” said Crowley, “if I win I get that jacket as my trophy.”

Billy’s jacket had patches all over it, with the names of every racer he’d beaten: Fast Charlie, Mad Dog Dan, etc. It was his prized possession besides his car. He was never without it, unless it was too damn hot to wear it. 

Billy’s tough guy expression faltered.

“What’s the matter, Barrett? Afraid you’ll lose?” sneered Crowley.

“You wish,” said Billy. He wasn’t one for great comeback lines.

Then Billy raked his eyes over Aziraphale, leering. She found herself shivering again. _Oh dear, where was this headed?_

“Fine, you win, you get my jacket. If I win, I get a date with your girl.” Billy smirked.

“ _Date?_ What the… with my...?” Crowley nearly snarled, having to restrain his fangs from instinctively elongating. How dare this human punk think he would ever touch his angel?

“ _Screw you, Barrett!_ ” he snarled.

Billy laughed. “You chicken, Crowley? ‘Fraid I’ll end up playing back seat bingo with your hot little chick here?”

Aziraphale blushed furiously. She didn’t know what back seat bingo was, but she knew she didn’t want to play it with Billy. She crossed her arms, wishing she could hide right now. She felt very sorry just then for attractive young women. Did they always have to put up with this kind of nonsense?

It took every ounce of Crowley’s restraint to keep from sprouting wings, fangs and claws and tearing Quick Burn Billy limb from limb. 

Billy just laughed harder seeing Crowley’s reaction. 

“Get a load of Tony Baloney,” he taunted, then made chicken noises. His greaser friends laughed, even his supposed girl Ruby who didn’t seem to care that Billy wanted Aziraphale as his prize. 

Aziraphale had to put a stop to it, for the sake of Crowley’s pride and the general safety of every human here. Before she could think, she blurted out, “He’ll take your idiotic bet!”

Every surrounding jaw dropped, including Crowley’s.

“Are you insane?” he hissed. “Do you want to end up with this pillock? 

“I’m not going to end up with anyone but you, Cr-Tony. Because you’re going to win.” She grabbed Crowley’s face with her hands on either side and then gave him a long, deep and very thorough kiss for everyone to see. 

“I’m all yours, my dear. Now go beat seven bells out of Brainless Billy, here.” Crowley had never admired the angel more. He knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he was still reeling a little from the kiss. Once again he had to will his erection away. 

“Got yourself a little hellcat, don’t you Crowley? I’m gonna love showing her a good time after I win. All right then, are we doing this or not?”

Crowley turned to Aziraphale and untied the bright pink scarf from her ponytail. He handed it to her. “You drop the scarf when we’re ready to go. That’s our start signal.” He demonstrated.

“All right then, Angel? Time to burn rubber.” But first they had to get to the starting point.

* * *

Billy’s Railton 8 had 113BHP, and a 0-60 time of 8.8 seconds, for a while when new had been the fastest production car in the world. It was a serious contender, and without any of Crowley’s modifications, it’d have him beat. With Crowley’s attention to detail, however, they were a fairly even match. 

Crowley’s car was a 1934 Bentley 3 ½ litre, or at least that was how it had started life anyway. Crowley had spent many hours tinkering with it, upgrading and trying to keep it as much of a sleeper as possible, so that his modifications weren’t visible to the casual observer, helping him fly under the radar. The bodywork of his Derby-built Bentley was a Thrupp & Maberley Coupé. Two were made but the other one disappeared some years ago in mysterious circumstances, leaving Crowley’s unique, just as he liked it. Most people had chosen the Mulliner or Park-Ward coachbuilders to build on their chassis when they ordered it from the factory, but Crowley liked to stand out from the Crowd in his own little ways. 

He’d upgraded the leaf spring suspension and of course the brakes. He’d had the valves ported and polished, had the cylinders bored out, installed a custom profile fast road cam to advance the lifters ever so slightly, granting the engine more fuel and air than had originally been specified. The exhaust manifold was custom built, heat wrapped in asbestos tape to keep the engine bay as cool as possible. 

He’d been tormented over whacking a supercharger on the front like the infamous Bentley Blower that had won at Le Mans years ago, topping out at 130mph, but that was the kind of modification that you couldn’t easily hide, and would ruin the sleek, unobtrusive lines he was aiming for. The work he’d already done was sufficient enough, and when he really needed to get moving, he could allow his demonic power to take over to lift the BHP into physically impossible realms, limiters be damned, literally. He could force the Bentley into speeds that left the needle quivering off the end of the dial if he really wanted to, but this was different. Racing against humans had to be fair, even if he was a demon, and he stuck to good old fashioned engineering. 

To improve his odds, he had as much as possible of the steel bodywork replaced with light aircraft alloy panels instead, at a not inconsiderable cost for the custom rolling of the replica panels, but it was worth it. He’d found that Land Rover up in Solihull had been making their new 4x4s using leftover aircraft aluminium alloy from when their factory had been requisitioned during the war to building fighter planes. The weight saving using these corrosion-resistant body parts was considerable, and increased the power-to-weight ratio of the Bentley significantly, without being in the slightest bit noticeable under the paintwork. 

He’d lightened other areas as well in the name of weight saving, even going as far as to replace the seats with a lighter framed substitute to even the odds in his favour. Because he couldn’t be bothered actually filling up with petrol, instead, his demonic subconscious always ensured that his tank was a quarter full of prime quality four-star. Never more than that however, because fuel was also weight. 

Crowley edged out cautiously onto the A406 and headed on up toward the Great North Road, the Railton idling along behind him, neither wanting to draw too much attention until they got to the start point. It’d be a good gentle run up there to warm the engine up and get it to the optimal operating temperature. A small crowd of other cars and bikes accompanied them like tugs around a liner. Mostly because they wanted to come and watch, but some of the bikers would run interference, and if the fuzz turned up and got curious, the bikes would distract them and draw them away from the cars. It’d mean owing the guys a meal or a pint later, and that was just fine with Crowley, it’s how it worked.

As they got onto the dual carriageway, a few of the cars behind lined up three abreast, blocking both lanes by straddling the white lines, so that no other cars could get past, and set a slower pace, giving a chance for the road ahead to clear in a good straight run. They’d be doing a mile instead of a quarter, and it’d give chance for a good blast up towards Borehamwood. They made sure to start north of Hendon as no one wanted that many rozzers hearing what was going on from the police training school based there. 

Seeing the road ahead nice and clear, and the rolling road block behind them keeping anyone else at bay, Crowley lined up next to the Railton and the entire entourage pulled to a halt. Crowley planted his foot and slipped the handbrake to pull a short rolling wheelspin, heating up the tyres and getting them nice and sticky for grip. Clouds of tyresmoke filled the air, obscuring the view of them for a moment. The Railton followed suit, then they inched forward together, and stopped neatly in line with a road sign, making sure their front bumpers were lined up. In lieu of a christmas tree of lights as a start signal, Aziraphale got out to stand between them, her silk scarf held high in the air. 

Crowley balanced the clutch and the revs, feeling the Bentley sit down on its haunches, the power like a coiled spring ready to launch. He hoped he wouldn’t mess it up and drop the clutch too sharply stalling himself on the starting line. He hadn’t done so yet, but there was a first time for everything. His engine growled with low menace. He was sure the Bentley was getting sentient after all these years. He kept an eye on the revs, balancing the needle precisely, until he had the feel and sound in his head enough to maintain it by feel alone, then lifted his eyes to Aziraphale. 

Billy had her gaze too, and gave a curt nod. Crowley followed suit. 

She dropped the scarf and in a howl of tortured tyres twisting as they laid down grip on the tarmac, they launched off the line. 

Crowley fought against the torque steer pulling him inexorably to one side. There was no power steering on these old beasts, so it was a physical battle of man, or demon, and machine. He wrestled the Bentley back in line, double stomp gear change as the revs hit the limit, plant the right foot, feel the power wind up, double clutch, change up, mash the throttle again, hit the limit, double stomp and change again. 

The Bentley howled in protest, her bodywork rattled and groaned as metal was put under the kind of stresses it was never originally designed to deal with. He was in top gear now and the car was shuddering around him. The street lamps and road signs zipping past him at ridiculous speed. They cleared the quarter mile mark neck and neck and kept going. The speedo passed 90, nudged up past 100, and still Crowley didn’t ease off. He knew he could get her to at least 120mph if he pushed hard enough, and this was a good road. 

Something rattled loose and the damn bonnet catches were shaking again. He worried they might fail and then the sides of the bonnet would clatter free. At this speed the wind resistance would probably rip them off and straight through the windscreen. He contemplated on the next run following the example of the Ford Pop boys and removing them altogether, he’d get more airflow around the hot engine then as well. He cursed inwardly and wished he’d thought of that sooner. 

He resisted the urge to add any ounce of demonic power to the already tremendous strain he was asking of the car. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt her, but at the same time, losing was not an option. They had a ridiculously short distance left before where the old cross road came up with a break in the barrier of the central reservation, where they’d be able to pull an (illegal) U turn and head back down to the Ace. 

The Bentley was screaming, and Crowley wasn’t sure that he wasn’t as well, his knuckles white as he had a death grip on the steering wheel, keeping the twitchy car steady against the violent feedback from the wheels. He was glad now that he’d chosen the right hand lane, as the Railton was on the left hand lane frequented by lorries, which in the hot summer had gradually caused slight troughs and unevenness in the tarmac there, giving Billy the less smooth bit of road surface. He was struggling hard to keep his wheels straight, the 8 was starting to weave in a scarily fish-tail like manner. 

_Ease off you bloody idiot_ , Crowely thought. Hit a tank-slapper kind of weave like that and it’d only take a split second for the Railton to be off and through a hedge, planting Billy in the nearest tree. And he _really_ didn’t want to have to explain to the angel of all people how he’d accidentally got someone killed that night. He could only hope that Billy wasn’t a complete idiot with a death wish and would admit defeat and lift off the accelerator before he lost control. 

He had to hand it to the human though, he had balls of steel, and didn’t let up. The struggle however was enough, only _just_ enough mind, to let Crowley inch ahead, but it was going to be too close. The Railton was closing the gap again. It was now or never. Crowley’s surreptitious heist from the local dentist’s surgery the other week was about to either pay off, or destroy his car. He reached down into the footwell and spun the knob, then felt the wheels scrabble for grip, the steering wheel trying to twist in his hands at the sudden torque of extra power that surged through the engine, down the driveshafts to the wheels. The Bentley groaned in protest. 

“Come on, girl, I know. We can do this,” he said between gritted teeth.

This was real edge-of-your-seat driving, the fine margin between can and can’t, and he had the distinct fear-thrill of the very real possibility of an abruptly painful and messy discorporation. But he held it together, every sinew straining and battling against the violent feedback the car was throwing back at him.

It surged ahead like a scalded cat, Crowley’s muscles working hard to keep it on the straight and narrow, the Railton fell behind by several feet in the final seconds before they passed the road sign indicating the finish. Enough that it wasn’t in dispute. 

The biker who sat at the side of the road there, waiting for them, dropped his arm decisively and pointed at Crowley, thumb up. 

He eased off slowly and the engine note dropped in audible relief, he hurriedly spun the knob shut again on the purloined bottle of nitrous oxide gas he’d stolen from the dental surgery the other week. He’d got the idea from an American stock car racer he’d bumped into, who told him about how they were using it on some of the race cars over there nowadays. It was dangerous, but could be a risk worth taking. He’d had to do some serious reinforcing of the Bentley’s mechanicals in order for her to be able to accept the sheer power load, but it seemed to have worked. He’d still prefer to stick to demonic power boost in the future though. He drew a long, shuddering relieved breath.  
  
Crowley looked for the break in the central reservation up ahead where they could turn round, and as he did, saw Billy glaring at him through the windscreen of the Railton behind. Crowley allowed the Bentley to almost idle along, letting her cool down on the run back down to the Ace again.

“ _Wahoo!_ ” He laughed and smacked the steering wheel lightly in triumph. “We did it, girl,” shit-eating grin planted on his face. “You’ll have a nice little tune-up and polish after this.”

Aziraphale nervously twisted the scarf in her hands as she waited for the drivers to return. She’d got a lift back to the Ace with a nice couple in the Velox. The bikers stormed back into the car park first, laughing and yammering away about the race. The guy who had been at the finish line grinned over at Aziraphale and gave her a thumbs up. “You’re in luck, lass, your Tony won that one, what a finish!” 

Relief flooded through her at the news and she paced up and down outside the Café waiting to hear the familiar engine note of the Bentley as it returned. Soon enough it rumbled back into the Ace, Crowley allowing the engine to run in an idle for a few minutes to keep the oil circulating to cool the engine down before shutting her down with a grin and a wink in Aziraphale’s direction. 

She walked over as Crowley got out of the car, the engine making little _pink-pink_ noises as hot metal cooled down in the evening air. He snaked an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and pulled her to his side as he leaned against the railing behind the car and watched Billy pull in with the Railton and park up. He got out, face like thunder, and stomped over to where Crowley waited. 

He almost looked like he was going to throw a punch, but something about Crowley’s expression, even behind his shades, made him think twice, and instead he shrugged out of his jacket and grudgingly handed it over before spinning on his heel and slinking back to his car to leave again, not wanting to hang around any more that night after his defeat. Crowley bought a few drinks for the drivers and bikers who had helped out with the street race, but didn’t hang around long, he wanted to get his angel home again.

She was chattering away happily as they drove home, her face glowing with post-race excitement mixed with relief. He wasn’t paying much attention until Billy’s name came up.

“....and to think that awful Quick Burn Billy person wanted to go on a date with me. Backseat Bingo? I wonder what kind of game that is. And I suppose I would have been honour bound to do it. You saved me, my dear,” she laughed, patting his thigh. The touch sent a little electric bolt right to his groin.

Honour bound? Did she say _honour bound_? If she thought he would actually let her be touched by anyone else…

Crowley’s adrenaline was pumping; he was still riding the high from his victory. He felt so alive. And apparently all he needed was a light touch to his thigh to wake up that erection he’d miracled down earlier at the Ace Café. 

He veered suddenly, and pulled to the side of the road picking a patch of dirt in a darkened spot. He looked at Aziraphale sitting next to him and removed his sunglasses. His snake eyes could see better than human ones in the dark. He saw her full, pouty lips, her full round breasts under her tight jumper, and her skirt which hugged her lush, thick thighs. He could hear her breathing in the darkened car. 

“Tony?” she asked. “Why did we stop? Is everything alright?” She looked at him wide-eyed. His sunglasses were off, and he was staring at her like… like a predator looks at his prey.

Crowley took in the sight of her, with her blue eyes and pink pouty mouth. She was so deliciously innocent. The angel had actually thought that if Billy won he was going to play a board game with her, for Satan’s sake.

But he still remembered that kiss back before the race. He could still feel it on his lips. And that greaser had wanted to _touch_ her. She was his, damn it. _Only_ his. 

He was going to have to show her. Time to sort out the angel’s thinking. He leaned toward her, reached around her head to guide her lips closer to his. Her hair was so soft, like silk.

“Crowley,” she breathed, “What..”

He didn’t let her finish. He miracled them into the back seat of the car, then snapping his fingers for just enough ambient light so that she could see what he was going to do. Her lips were parted and he pressed his mouth to hers, entering her mouth with his tongue. He kissed her hard enough to make her dizzy. He was going to drive Billy’s name and face right out of her pretty head. She was delicious… kissing her was like enjoying a good wine or decadent dessert, and he wanted more. He was pleased when he realized she was returning his kiss with equal passion. Her breathing quickened, and she moaned into the kiss. 

He smoothed her hair back and nibbled on her little earlobe. “You know you’re mine, don’t you?” he whispered. Then he moved down to her neck. She tilted her head obligingly, giving him access. Then suddenly the gentle nibbling turned into a bite. She gasped with both pain and pleasure as she felt the sting.

“Did you think I’d let some dirtbag like Billy soil you? Not when I could do it so much better. I don’t want to hear his name on your lips again, understand?” He sucked on the mark he’d made, until she moaned.

“Answer me,” he growled, his hot breath on her neck. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “I’m yours, Tony.”

“Then take that top off,” he ordered.

She pulled the jumper up and off over her head, messing her blonde hair. She wore a pink satin bra that barely contained her. He moved closer to reach back around and unhook her bra. Damned contraptions… it was the other side that invented bra hooks, of course. Made it harder to sin. But after some fumbling his determination won out. Now that he had proper access to those glorious round tits, he squeezed and toyed with them, making her squirm as his hands moved all over them. They were velvety soft, and she definitely had more than a handful each. He leaned over to suck on her nipples, taking one into his mouth while he teased the other with his hand. He thought he could live in those breasts, go to sleep pillowed between them, but by now there was a more urgent need. His erection was straining his tight jeans. And now, _dear Satan_ , her hands were on him, caressing and encouraging him as she kept panting and sighing.

Aziraphale writhed under the demon’s touch; she loved this new sensation of tingling in her nipples and between her legs. She really was going to have to try the female form more often. Everything was so delightfully _sensitive_. She found she was also enjoying being manhandled by the demon, as if he wanted to own her. Her body was responding to his masculine, possessive energy. His body was hard and sweaty, all of him so enticingly muscled. He smelled like engine oil, sweat, and that spicy sulphury smell just faintly underneath. She could feel her underpants getting wet, and she wanted him on top of her very badly, touching that wetness. She reached up and untucked his cheap cotton tee shirt, smoothing her hands over his finely muscled torso. He growled possessively as she did so. She tried to pull him down, closer to her. She barely noticed that her head was now squished awkwardly against the side of the Bentley. 

“Lay down,” Crowley gasped. He had to get under that skirt, and _soon_ , before he came right there with his jeans on. She maneuvered so that she lay fully down on the decadently soft Connolly leather seat. Her skirt hiked up as she wriggled herself down. She instinctively tried to tug the skirt back down, but the demon grabbed her hand and pushed it away. 

“No,” he ordered.

He unbuckled his belt as fast as he could, pulling the tight blue jeans down enough to release his aching cock. The angel lay there panting softly, watching, her eyes widening at the sight of his huge purplish erection, the tip of his cock dripping already. He was nearly feral with desire and possessiveness now. He yanked her skirt up roughly, and she lifted her hips to help so he wouldn’t rip the fabric. She wore lacy pink panties underneath.

“Nice, angel,” he grinned, eyeing them. “Were you hoping I’d see them and then tear them off you?”

She simply blushed and pouted prettily at him.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to answer.” He put his hand between her legs, rubbing the crotch of her panties. “I know the answer. You’re already soaking wet for me.”

She moaned loudly under his touch, she couldn’t help herself. He smirked, continuing to rub her through her silky panties until she was a squirming mess. But he knew he wasn’t going to last much longer himself, Satan, he could almost come right then, untouched, just watching her writhe on the leather seat.

“Oh Tony, please,” she begged. She lifted her hips and pulled the panties down below her bum. He yanked them off the rest of the way. Then he grabbed her full, round hips, digging his fingers into her soft flesh. He positioned her just right on the seat, and then raked his hands over the inside of her thighs. Then he gently pushed them apart. She was so soft and lush. He couldn’t wait to bury himself between those thighs. He took just a moment to admire her laid out on the seat like this, panting with desire for him, luscious and soft and begging for him to fuck her. Her pussy, surrounded with just a dusting of soft blonde hair, was slick and ready. He couldn’t hold out any longer.

He positioned himself on the seat of the car, and with no more foreplay he plunged his throbbing cock into her with one smooth motion. She cried out with pleasure. He stayed buried inside her without moving for just a moment, willing himself to hold out a little longer. But _bless it all_ , she began squirming and begging again.

“Please, Tony. _Please_. I want it hard.”

He obliged her. He pulled out nearly all the way then plunged back into her hot, tight hole. 

He repeated his thrusting, slowly at first to draw out her delicious moans. But soon he quickened his pace, too excited by the friction as he moved in and out, with his angel wriggling and moaning underneath him. She braced herself with her hands on the seat backs, which gave him a perfect view of her tits jiggling with each thrust.

She wrapped her legs around him, trying to push him in even deeper. He was angled so that he was rubbing against her clit and hitting her sweet spot with every push. 

“ _Oh God, Tony_ ,” she cried as she climaxed. 

Waves of pleasure overcame her as she shuddered, and he felt her walls tightening and pulsing around his cock. It sent him over the edge. He came hard, ramming into her as he spilled his hot seed deep inside her. Their orgasms seemed to last forever as they both rode out the euphoria. 

At last they were spent. Crowley stayed inside her for a time, murmuring little things as he leaned down and kissed her softly, then planted little kisses over her face. He told her how beautiful she was in any form, and how lucky he was to have her. He nuzzled her neck for a moment and kissed the mark he’d left there from his love bite. 

He grinned, pleased that he’d branded her as his.

“Don’t you dare miracle that hickey away, baby.” he murmured into her ear. “I want everyone to see it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, smiling, flushed and wrung out. 

At last he pulled out, and she sighed with disappointment at the loss. She could have laid there for hours with him inside her. He hiked her legs up so he could awkwardly untangle himself, then pulled his pants and jeans back up. He watched the angel scoot herself up, topless, skirt bunched up around her, hair disheveled. She was glistening with a light sheen of sweat, and he’d left his scent on her.

“I’ve made a right mess of you,” he said, grinning as he zipped up his fly. 

“Proud of yourself, are you?” She tried to look put out but couldn’t. 

“You bet I am,” he smirked. He reached over to tilt her chin up and kissed her gently. “You know you’re mine in whatever form you’re in, right Angel?”

She got her bra back on and reached for her now-rumpled top.

“And you’re all mine, you fiend.” 

* * *

_The following week…_

Crowley took Aziraphale’s arm as they left the theatre after the ballet. Aziraphale had kept her feminine form and had picked out, with Crowley’s help, a floor length pale blue evening gown, a smattering of blue diamonds at her throat accentuating her eyes. Crowley had spent the entire performance with his hand on her thigh, gently rubbing the silk against the line of her suspender belt below the fabric, teasing himself with the thought as much as her. And now seeing the Bentley parked at the kerb outside, he couldn’t wait any longer. He had a plan. 

He ran one hand over her silky smooth waxed bodywork, fingers trailing along the smooth metal with a smile. Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge of jealousy toward the vehicle, seeing how Crowley was with her. Crowley raised his eyes to meet the angel’s. “Treated her to some imported carnauba wax after the race, have a feel.” He guided Aziraphale’s hand across the glossy paintwork. “Shall we see if she passes the panty test?” 

Aziraphale’s brows knitted in confusion. “Panty test?”

Crowley grinned. “The judge of how well a car has been detailed, the paintwork polished with such attention to detail that it’s completely flawless, no contaminants, just glossy smooth wax. If you can throw a pair of silk panties on the bonnet and they slide off instead of just staying where they fell, then you did a good job.” He winked at her, then snapped his fingers.

Aziraphale gaped at him as her silk knickers appeared in his hand, and a sudden feeling of cool air between her legs startled her into a short gasp. “Crowley, you _fiend_!” she hissed at him. 

Crowley shrugged “Demon,” he reminded her, then casually threw her panties on the bonnet, sure enough, they slid easily off the paintwork and landed on the curve of the wing. He caught them and twirled them on one finger with a smirk. “Well, as you’re already knickerless… perhaps we should take this to the back seat?”

Aziraphale tried to look disapproving, but failed completely when a wicked grin suffused her features. She pressed close to her demon and allowed him to draw her into a deep messy kiss. “I could make a habit of this,” she whispered in his ear, as her hand slid down to brush over his trousers at his crotch teasingly. 


End file.
